smoke signals
from a passing car
smell like longing
and leftover Christmases
never used up
Coffee Break
don’t worry
about the trash in your yard
it’s not
from my yard
it’s from all the thoughts
that heap up
in the middle of the storm
whirling
with a gig of their own
she doesn’t know who she is
all the clouds look like rain
every man walks by
in a white t-shirt and faded jeans
and no one ever asks her
who she is – no one ever wants to know
where she came from
all her weather she brings with her
all the storms she leaves behind
politicians lie
too often to be trusted
and so I will lie
under this red maple tree
where none lie not even birds
late night crackle of fire
early June heat like mid-summer swelter
bad news on the horizon
I take steps backwards, and
a hand on my back pushes
me to press on
put popcorn in the fire
ice in a glass
small joys
absolution
‘don’t drop the soap’, he said
as if I were headed to the penitentiary
any time soon, I suppose
that is where the penitent go for redemption
by definition, all of our dust
we carry on our shoes, if they be
one hundred or my own three sets
they carry the browsing history
of years of searching
compact
small and tight
arms and legs pulled in
I could fit into a pocket
or run along curbs and ledges
avoiding the squirrels
take the toast corners of life
and wipe up all the wet bits
the strobe light moments
that turn on the cells
and go down good with sunrise
your delicate memory
will be my ornament
(when you are cold
to me)
my blood’s
a soldier burning
you runplay tag now
each touch another eff-you
nest deep in the fir
